Dragon's Precipice
by Apollo Wings
Summary: Rewrite of The Daughter of the Mountain. The Avvar Barbarian Origin of Dyrfinna An Nikolina O Auonar, the lynchpin that changes the course of canonical history as soon as she sets foot in lowlander territory. With Griffons, Orlesian warfare, taint, death, and blasphemy of the Maker! Reviews are appreciated by readers new and old. Cover Art by DragonReine of Deviant Art.
1. Chapter 1

Author Note: Tis an arduous path I tread, thinking of doing a rewrite on not only my most popular story but my longest... but I need to. Damn this brain of mine. If you've read The Daughter Of The Mountain - I am dreadfully sorry for this. You'll know my plot arcs and plans up to pretty much the Archdemon. But I've created a story I feel I can do better with, for myself and my dear readers. I'll try to add in twists and turns... kill characters and stuff. The usual.

I am not using completely dragon age lore for recipes and such. If you're interested - I've done a short 'book of potions' here on Fanfiction - under the Dragon Age genre.

As with a theme in all my stories, a barter economy will exist. The term for a rogue would be archer (and dual wielders assassins/duelists and words to such effect), warriors exist, as do mages. Mana is a banned word - magical energies suffices. This also applies to the energy of a demon - referring to their 'health' is pointless.

No more Author Notes from now on unless I feel the urge to RANT!

The story itself will remain rated T rather than M - a hard T for sensual situations and blood/gore/grit.

**Please Read:**

**The Avvar culture is based upon the concept of no permanence. Neither mountain or animal will last forever. Their marriages are ritualised by the binding of the bride in knots while she sings a hymn to their pagan gods.**

**The man will then try to undo as many knots as possible before the song finishes. The knots equate to years the marriage will last.**

**Their names are a history of sorts. They take their mother's name as a second one and their clan name like a surname.**

**So Julie, daughter of Helen Smith would be - Julie An Helen O Smith. And Julie's brother Steve would be Steve Ar Helen O Smith. This is because in all cultures, you could always be sure of your maternal relations.**

Disclaimer: Owned by BioWare/EA. I accept and expect no monetary reimbursement for this labour of love - but reviews might be nice!

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**Chapter 1**

A life atop a mountain, in a culture of harsh lessons and harsher weather, punctuated by the arcane memories of the ancients was not a subtle undertaking. Yet the Avvar clans of the Frostback Mountains took to it gladly.

In the far east of Ferelden, the Frostbacks rose high, a natural barrier of rock and indeed, frost, against the hostile Orlesian Empire. One should be equal parts hardy and foolhardy to live in such conditions.

The Auonar Clan thrived though. They considered themselves partially settled for nomads, having a clan site which they migrated to throughout the year; Phoenix Hold during the summery months, high in altitude where the Veil between waking world and the dreamland was as thin as the air. The land was fertile for crops, untouched by heavy farming and renewed by the local wildlife that too - inhabited the heights. For the winters they moved frequently, living on their amassed storage of preserved vegetables, fruits, meats, and herbs. They hunted and foraged for fresh food, but the summers were oft fruitful and plentiful enough that it was for flavour rather than need that they engaged in such.

Phoenix Hold was a haven for the Avvar nomads, welcoming other clans every five winters in a meeting. The Thanes and Jarls would take to meet in the great hall, bringing new knowledge and experiences, sharing their wealth or taking a lesson in humility when another clan should gift them in hard times.

As Thane of the Auonar Clan, the largest of Ferelden, Nikolina An Inger was a stern woman, silver hair held back with a circlet of beaded leather. She wore dark green robes of wool and furs to stave off the cold, carrying with her always, her sceptre, a wooden pole a head taller than herself adorned with the memories of previous Thanes.

The memories were symbolic of the old, a griffon feather, a turquoise bead, rough amber tied with knotted twine. Each was powerful, imbued with strength and temperance. She intended to pass it down to her daughter. Permanence was difficult to come by, the greatest stone was worn down by the wind, the mightiest warrior unable to outrun the impartial hand of The Lady Of The Skies, whose name still wrought ill omen.

But in that knowledge came strength, while no physical remnant was to be seen, the culture was to stay within the hearts and minds of the people. Their Gods remained sacred, appeased. They could not let history mark them again for their trespass against them.

The Thane watched as her daughter strode down the path from her home, a woman hewn by the mountain itself with height and strength, tempered in battle by Hakkon Wintersbreath himself. Nikolina had trained Dyrfinna herself, allowing a scrawny girl take up arms at the tender age of nine winters, challenging her to push harder and further than imagined of her.

She kept her tutored in their histories, for she knew that one day, it was both brawn and mind that would protect her when life would drive her away.

She intended to pass the sceptre to her daughter. Yet it had come to pass in a ritual with their clan shaman, viewing the murky uncertainty that was the future, that in all ways, Dyrfinna would leave them. At first she had struggled greatly with the concept, wishing to fight tooth and claw against losing her only daughter. She swayed from holding her fiercely to refraining from speaking to her.

The Lady Of The Skies had plans for her daughter that she aught not control. It was simply her duty to prepare her for the ballad ahead.

* * *

Dyrfinna paced the frosted grass, trepidation lining her young face with a frown. Her son, Thorarin, had been sick in the night. While maternal and doting on him, she found herself stuck. The world of herbs for good or ill was one she grasped only lightly. She knew barely how to identify the plants of the world she lived in, enough to make basic concoctions. She feared that such knowledge was not enough.

And so she had come to the apothecary here in the Hold, she had seen her mother outside but a moment ago... "Mother! I require your healing talents!" She called again toward the stone and timber cottage. The door was ajar but she knew better than to barge inside.

A periapt hung on the front to ward off theurge and demon kin, old, workable magic by those not of magical blood. She watched it sway in the weak wind, crystals tangling with soft woollen threads with the ley lines of the Veil. They shifted not like the wind, but of a different momentum. "Do come in, you should catch cold outside!"

She rolled her eyes as she moved under the porch, scraping her soles off on the threshold as to not dirty the floor. "I thought you out." Dyrfinna declared at the sight of her mother pouring over an old tome on a stand, throwing a pinch of some dessicated herb into a heavy bottomed pot over the hearthfire. The Thane was an elderly woman now, not as hale as she had once been.

Of course, she was still strong of posture and wily with speed. She was simply not the woman of her youth however. She looked up, something sad in her eyes that made Dyrfinna question herself. She knew of her mother's keen works with the shaman Skormr, divining the future with old magic, calling upon the remnants of power the Gods left behind in the dreamworld. "So, should I stop what I do for your presence?" The Thane lost that sadness, replaced by impassive coldness.

"Thorarin is ill, I should hope to have a cure for his sickness." She said plainly. It was her mother that bustled over to her cabinet of tinctures and potions, pulling it open with an almighty tug that rattled the insides. It was filled to the brim with odd flasks, stained with reuse and milky, but dull, dark liquids shook in their respective glass bottles. She selected one seemingly at random.

"Stomach illness? Pain?" She asked, reading the faded label marked with black ink. Dyrfinna laid a hand on her mother's shoulder, drawing her away from the cabinet and the strong aromas of the herbs, oils, and alcohols.

"He is being sick, and has not eaten for fear of bringing it back up." She gulped, Thorarin had been a sickly babe, most troublesome with a barking cough, and bloated stomach for much of his time as an infant. As a child, he was merely small, prone to catching ill. It was common, common enough that the Thane rolled her eyes, picking up a flask of pale green liquid with large dark leaves settled in the bottom.

"Have him swallow the lot, feed him fowl broth, or honey and salt. It should clear him up." She smiled weakly, sighing as she went back to the bubbling mixture in her pot, picking up a mortar and pestle to empty in it. "Come now, how is Svien?"

"Still complaining of his burns. The forge will be dark many more nights I fear." Dyrfinna answered, "The salve assuages his pain, but in the night he tosses and turns."

As blacksmith of their clan, Svien Ar Hallvieg was a bear of a man, near seven feet in height with arms corded in thick muscle, a beard as great as his booming voice, and the temperament to match the wise creature he resembled. He wore the stripe of Korth down his craggy face with a natural ease, an outward marking of his strength and pride. With such men, he could complain, and complain he did of the burns from the forge where his apprentice had dropped water and it spat from the burning embers, scalding his arm.

She would be married to him three winters more before they parted. A sad, but inevitable end to all marriages, to all things. One came to understand that all things ended, good or ill. But you enjoyed and cherished that time together. Love was something precious, not squandered by knowing how long it would last.

Love carried on. Indeed, Dyrfinna still loved her first husband,the father of Thorarin. Erlend Ar Myrun was a docile man, strong in wits with an easy smile. One of the many shepherds their clan boasted. His soft love, the way he would place her high in his estimations never failed to make her feel warm inside. Thorarin was their joint culmination of their love, born in her seventeenth year, three years into their marriage together. Erlend had had many daughters, but Thorarin was his only son, and he doted on the boy, wishing him to become a shepherd too when he reached age.

Thorarin always admired his mother's role in the clan more. He wished to be a warrior, trained with the sword and shield as she was. She would catch him late at night, while she tended to her armour with vinegar and oils to keep them clean and the leather supple; at these times he would sit in his room, playing with whittled figurines that Svien made as a hobby, creating battles filled with heroism and lore. His favourite would always be the Battle of Red Falls, between Luthias Dwarfson and Morrighan'nan.

Dyrfinna was one of the warriors for the clan, they numbered few, but strong; they all knew of ways to protect and fight if needs be, battle could be turned by novice archers or a skillet to the head of the right enemy. The Avvar had enemies aplenty, men in heavy suits of armour and leather surcoats who wished to take or kill their shaman, missionaries of the lowlander faiths who brought warriors and archers to reiterate their point that their God was the loving, caring saviour. It had not been too many years, longer than her lifetime but within living memory that the painted lowlanders, the Orlesians they shared the edges of the Frostbacks with, had come over in armies, bringing diseases and war, spreading fires to Holds.

And they still watched for their ancient foe - the Tevinter heathens. The Avvar waged war with them before their self-imposed exile to the mountains, stealing Ferelden back from them, their runic letters, freeing the Children of Shartan and the noble mabari hounds from their slavery. It was for nought in their defeat, hence their own penance of living as nomads in the fringes of what was liveable. But it was victory of sorts, as it lead to their retreat to their country of origin.

"He should trust Torbjorn more in the forge. Our carts for our winter of nomadic travel need fixing." The Thane grumbled. Dyrfinna rolled her eyes. It was as if she disapproved of her in some way, she was astounded when at her adulthood ceremony that she caught the shepherd's eye, marrying the man. She watched with eagle eyes at the way she looked after Thorarin. She did not speak much to the blacksmith unless necessary.

Other Avvar mothers did not treat their own children with such a cold hand. Normally their families were tight knit. It always felt as if she tried to push her away. "That is true. Perhaps I should speak with him about it." She sighed, picking up the full flask of medicine. Dyrfinna twirled the label in her fingers, reading the runic lettering that entailed it's ingredients. It was as gibberish as magic would be to a mabari.

She left the cottage of herbs and healing, stowing the flask in a deep breeches pocket. Her eye was caught by a man in folded metal suit and fur-lined cape. This would hardly be different but for his dark skin and lack of banding o'er his face. Dyrfinna cursed her lack of armour, remembering a pair of sharp sheep shears she stowed in her cloak that she was to return to Erlend soon. "Lowlander, I suggest you do not dally amongst the Avvar." She warned, approaching him with confidence that belied an inner fear of what he brought to them.

Lowlanders brought little good. He turned his face fully to her, showing a battle weary face, scarred over an eyebrow, with a golden hoop slung in one ear. His jaw wobbled with the cold. "Excuse me, I thought myself lost on route to Orzammar." He explained. His voice was sage, hoarse with ailment or overuse.

"How did you surpass the Hold's defences?" Memories swam into her mind, of Skormr the shaman explaining to the children why lowlanders could not steal into the Hold at night to whisk them away. He should not have been able to surpass such magics. It was only during their nomadic winters that the Auonar encountered even the lost travelling lowlanders. His excuse rang hollow to her.

He looked surprised for a moment and Dyrfinna crossed her arms, rocking into her hips for stability in the treacherous grounds. He wet his lips. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude. I was friends with an Avvar long ago who blessed me with some ritual that would let me seek aid with any Avvar, I hadn't realised it was more than symbolic." He looked chagrined, making himself less imposing. He was still a warrior, and so his posture was that of training and respect.

"A likely story." It was in such instances that she wished a better knowledge of magic too. She knew enough of the sigil stones that protected the Hold keep a shaman safe in their repair of them, enough that she knew the danger of demon kin and theurges from words with Skormr. As maternal brother to Erlend the two men were close, and as such, she spent time with his wife Elsa, her son friends with his own three children.

"I tell you the truth dear lady." He took a step back, a reflex perhaps? "I fear I might not reach Orzammar soon then, not with the hour."

Orzammar was a forced march without carts or clan in a week. It was perilous, but all Avvar warriors made the journey to be accepted as Ash Warriors, sharing their ritual with the dwarven Berserkers. Their ties to Orzammar were enough that they considered a dwarf lost in the mountains, less hostile than a human or elf. "It is far from the route taken by lowlanders. You are... very lost if you do not lie."

Her resolve slipped at the seemingly honest way he spoke. "How far? Are there more villages between here and Orzammar?"

"None I know of. I should speak to our Thane about allowing you haven for the night." Dyrfinna beckoned the lowlander after her. "Might I know your name?"

"It's Duncan, of the Grey Wardens." Older memories, stories that dated as far back as their ancient war with Tevinter stirred, more recent ones regarding the dwarves she had met when inducted as an Ash Warrior called forth in her head. She did not speak them but the words Grey Warden arose with great respect.

"I am Dyrfinna An Nikolina O Auonar." She replied.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Owned by EA/BioWare, but golly, do I wish it were mine? Le Sigh...

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**Chapter 2**

_"It's Duncan, of the Grey Wardens." Older memories, stories that dated as far back as their ancient war with Tevinter stirred, more recent ones regarding the dwarves she had met when inducted as an Ash Warrior called forth in her head. She did not speak them but the words Grey Warden arose with great respect._

_"I am Dyrfinna An Nikolina O Auonar." She replied. _

She found her mother again, bent over the heavy bottomed pan, pressing her finger under a word in her enormous book of recipes and muttering about needing more Wormwood Sap but cursing her lacking supplies as she threw a mere pinch of a dark powder inside. "Thane? I have a pertinent question." She said, having barged inside the cottage which for some reason, the Thane had left with door ajar after her departure.

"It can wait, I am at an incredibly difficult part." She snapped back. Duncan, at Dyrfinna's side, coughed into his fist, drawing amber Avvar eyes to him, wild and glaring at his mere presence. Those eyes widened until the coloured iris was like a speck amidst a white, bloodshot sea. "Sigfrost's pelt."

"As I mentioned-" Dyrfinna was cut off by a glare that she too, had learned in all arts. It was a glare of silence, respect, and obedience. In this case, to shut her mouth.

The Thane picked up her stave, holding with white-knuckles as she slowly made her way up to Duncan, close enough as to be intrusive. She looked at him in the eyes before hmm'ing to herself. "A lowlander which made their way into the Hold. Have you informed Skormr of this? His sigils may be wavering."

"We believe an Avvari man I knew long ago imparted access to me in some form of ritual." The Grey Warden spoke calmly, with respect and firmness to his entire posture. Dyrfinna admired him for it, for not many could accomplish such at the inspection of the Thane.

"Avvar man. Not Avvari, nor Avvarian." She snapped, she ran a hand into her loose, silver hair, sighing heavily. "Who are you?"

"This man is Duncan O Grey Wardens." Dyrfinna supplied. "He found himself lost on route to our dwarven brothers in Orzammar."

"Your business with the dwarves?" The Thane asked, relaxing her stance as she backed away. The atmosphere in the cottage, warm and steamed from the tincture being brewed was cold and brittle.

"I was seeking recruits amongst their army, swords that knew battle with the darkspawn." He supplied. Duncan shifted uneasily. "Dyrfinna here suggested that I may rest here for the night before continuing in less harsh weather?"

"She did? Peculiar of my daughter to suggest such a thing. It seems I taught her well of those respect is due." Her mother looked fondly, wistfully at her for a brief second, followed by Duncan with a sharp, shocked expression which he schooled away, his attention back on the Thane.

"I simply remembered that the Grey Wardens are respected by the dwarves for their aide against the monsters that corral them to Orzammar. If this warrior is respected by the dwarves, who are we to turn him away." Dyrfinna muttered. She straightened out, refusing to be seen as weak against the presences of two veteran warriors. She too was a strong, capable warrior, skilled and deadly is needs be.

"True. So Duncan shall stay in your home until the weather clears and he can navigate safely to Orzammar." The Thane made the suggestion seem so offhand, so easy. Yet it was a command. She flurried into motion. "So scat out of this house, I have a ruined tincture to save that I am sure, neither of you can fix. Korth's strength Duncan O Grey Wardens."

They were bustled out without another word, the door slammed behind them. Dyrfinna smiled nervously. "I believe that means you may stay. I suggest you follow me and I shall sort out a bed for you." Tiredly, she rubbed the back of her neck, wondering what in all sensibilities had caused her mother to act so peculiarly. Troublesome indeed.

As they walked, Dyrfinna felt an itching need to know exactly what the Grey Wardens did, why he was recruiting more to be warriors of his order. "So Grey Wardens do indeed fight those accursed with the Tevene plague?"

Duncan chuckled at the words, the edges of his eyes crinkling. "It's been a long time since I've heard it called that. I remember Kell telling me why the Avvar thought of the darkspawn that way."

"Because the Tevene entered the dreamworld after having bound our Gods away, seeking The Lady of the Skies, Uvolla, and Imhar. The Lady of the Skies cursed them to wreak death on all they loved, all that loved them, ally and foe alike. Uvolla took all their natural splendour from them, and Imhar took their intelligence. But their own Gods saw this, and sought to control them, thus, the Blights of their plague began. Controlled by their draconic Gods, those inflicted with the curses swept Thedas, infecting and tainting all they touched." Dyrfinna recited. It was an old tale, one that taught the power behind protecting their powerful Gods, it was not in their rights to usurp their thrones, but to keep them appeased and seek their blessing so that when they returned in spirit to the dreamworld, they would be at peace.

Duncan frowned. "And I fear it a very close truth on the nature of the darkspawn, steeped in the powers of immortal beings and the suffering of mortals. The Chantry tells a similar tale."

"The lowlander faith. I assume it would." She sniffed. "It may not be true. It may simply be an illness such as the flu or pox. But it is a tale I hold dear. One of their trespasses upon the Avvar and a way to explain how it seemed to spread from them."

Duncan's brows arched almost comically, his mouth agape. "That was unexpected. Kell... never saw it as a tale."

"The Thane taught me that the Gods oft told tales to explain what mortal life could not understand. Why not apply such teachings?" She shrugged, watching the Grey Warden's expression closely. He was in deep thought, a furrow between his black brows, lips pinched together. Eventually, they came upon a home, not unlike any of the others, but special in her heart. "We are here. I suggest you stay close, for my son and husband will either frighten or rage at your sight."

He gulped thickly, extending a hand for her to lead. "Then I trust your judgement my lady."

* * *

Duncan seemed strangely quiet as he walked about the floor, pacing, upon occasion glancing at small, inconsequential objects. His gait was uneven, but soft, hardly making a noise on the boards, threshes, or rugs. His attention lingered on the stand of armour in the corner. The metal front of her chestplate was shined brilliantly, the leather binder and skirt of her jerkin oiled and sewn up where it had aged. The sheep wool lined jacket she wore, protected up her shield arm with plates of silver metal hung over it and the heavy boots tucked beneath. To the side, she noticed him take interest in the runic sword of her ancestors and clan shield.

The sword had been passed down the warrior generations of her family, from the first of her line, Inger An Elsa twelve generations ago, eventually to her grandfather, mother, then herself. The blade had been replaced, the runes inscribed as they dulled with repair, the hilt changed and new leather wrapped as it frayed. But it was the same sword, the soul of it remained. She maintained it with brilliant sharpness on a whetstone, keeping it from the inquisitive, questing hands of Thorarin. "You're a warrior." Duncan finally stated.

The armour was fit for man or woman, for there was no true difference in style but for the size. Dyrfinna was tall, and her breasts bound easily for it. Still, it could have been mistaken for someone else's. "I am. Have you gripe with that?" She asked, pulling sheets and blankets from the cabinet, taking the herbal packets from inside that sweetened them too much for moths.

"No, I hadn't met many warriors who continued be such after having children." He said plainly. Dyrfinna shrugged. Why hang up a sword for children? The skills were useful, and should she die, her clan or Erlend would raise Thorarin. The Avvar were more than one person, they were a clan, a people united rather than apart. It was sad, but death was a natural thing, preventable sometimes, but not always.

"Do you have children of your own?" She asked, beckoning him to follow after her as she padded toward the spare bed chamber. It was oft used by Gunnhildr, their Jarl, or war-chieftan. Gunnhildr found it nigh impossible to sleep sometimes with her husband, whom she hated, her children would wake her early. A warrior needed their sleep and so she would sleep there some nights. Unfortunate as it may be, she had another five years left of her fifteen she should have with Olaf. They had loved each other once...

Duncan made some sad, disagreeing hum rather than replying, putting his shoulder bag, a heavy canvas sack that needed repair along the bottom where the stitching was loose, on the chair next to the basin. "Thank you for your hospitality. I haven't much I could part with that would ever be of value."

Dyrfinna shrugged again. "Then I ask nothing. This room would have been here regardless of your presence."

A sudden gasp and scrape of shoes in threshes alerted them both to a mop of straw blond hair and curious, peeking eyes that had a belonged to a small hand that gripped the door frame. Thorarin, leaned further to get a closer look, aware that the adults were now watching him. "Who is that, Mama?"

"A warrior to be respected. He is not dangerous, come - meet Duncan O Grey Wardens, Thorarin." She extended a hand out and the boy of six winters rushed in, giving the dark-skinned man a curious inspection, his head tilted to the side and lips pursed together.

"You are a lowlander?" He asked, furrowing his brows. Duncan chuckled, moving into a squat despite his armour, elbows resting on his knees that clicked loudly as he moved then.

"Oh yes. But a good one I believe, or trusted at least." He smiled impishly at the lad, lopsidedly.

"I like your earring." Thorarin ran from the room then, like the wind.

"Where are you going?" Dyrfinna called after him.

"Svart, Skorri, Eddval, Marthe, and Elsa are outside. We are to practise the totem dance for the spring festival!" He shouted back. Dyrfinna shook her head. The children all seemed to want to do the totem dance, weaving the ribbons that Skorri and Eddval's father Eddval the elder wove, around the totem stones, bidding the Gods to see them fruitful o'er the coming year. They'd have bells on their knees and shoes, able to eat themselves silly on sweet honeyed nuts and fruits saved over winter for the festival.

She had loved it herself as a child, seeing all the sweet treats after coming back to Phoenix Hold. The music old Jarl Orm had played. The smell of saved chestnuts being roasted and tearing into them with her fingers, burning them but not caring because the nutmeat lay inside, waiting to be devoured. She could not help feel vicariously happy at seeing Thorarin rush off to be with his friends, his exuberance at the upcoming fun. The medicine she had asked for my not have been needed then, hale spirits seemed to have cured him of what ailed him. That or excitement.

"The carefree young." Duncan commented.

"Indeed. They fear not but imagined horror, and care not but to rush headfirst at life." Dyrfinna smiled sadly. She had tried, Korth give her strength, she had tried to conceive again, introduce another life into this world. Others warned her of patience, that the young came when they aught wished to and not a moment sooner. Such moments came and went when she realised how full her life already was, it was foolish and mad to want more work to do. Worthwhile work, but work nevertheless. "I should make up your bed and see how the pottage fares."

* * *

It was late in the evening when Svien came from their own bed chamber, his arm still swaddled in bandages. Upon seeing a guest at their table he paused at the door. His eyes narrowed as Dyrfinna looked up from fixing Duncan's bag. "Svien, I thought not to wake you. Would you like some supper?"

The bear of a man grunted, his eyes not leaving Duncan. The Grey Warden looked up. "There is a lowlander in our home." He stated.

"Evidently." The Warden replied. It was a battle of wills as they sized the other up, alpha males squaring off without word or sword.

Dyrfinna rolled her eyes. Men being men! She put the bag down, standing and stretching. "Duncan is a Grey Warden lost on his route to Orzammar, he will leave when the weather clears. The Thane suggested he stay here."

All day the clouds has swollen with snow, the air had been crisp. A late spurt of cold before the spring. Already it had started to fall, in flurries that coated the ground quickly. Outside, despite the late hour, it was pale and ghostly as the moon lit up the white ground. For those not used to travel, it was perilous to attempt traversing the mountains. "I will eat in our room. I shall speak with you later Dyrfinna."

The man with the stripe of Korth that ran from forehead to collarbone huffed, turning around and storming back to the bed chamber. She shook her head. "I knew his reaction 'fore he even said a word. He will continue to be like this with his arm still grieving him, or not - he would rather seem cantankerous than afraid." She opened the pot with a cloth, pulling a few ladles of the pottage into a bowl set by the hearth for Svien.

Men of strength had more pride and wounds in their pride when pained. Svien was no different. "I'm sorry if I've caused an argument. I could ask your Thane if I could stay elsewhere?"

"Nonsense. He will suffer it and you should not bother her." Dyrfinna dismissed the Warden. He seemed so accommodating that she could not help but like his company. "You were saying about your charges in this... King Cailan's army? In fact... tell me when I return."

Dyrfinna left briefly, not speaking to her husband when he took the bowl from her in the candlelit chamber. "Do not trust him. Lowlanders bring naught but worry."

She returned, sitting back in her chair and continuing with the sewing. "I was saying... I have only twenty Wardens in the entirety of Ferelden at this time. That was why I intended to head to Orzammar, they have the most keen warriors, most skilled at the task I'd have to consign them to." Duncan finished his thought from before they were interrupted. "Of those, only one mage, a few very green warriors, and two recruits."

Dyrfinna had asked him before what a mage was, and the answer was that it was a mere lowlander word for shaman. Duncan was more than _just _a Grey Warden though. He was the Commander of the Grey Wardens here in Ferelden. Their leader. Upon that knowledge his whole demeanour made sense, he was used to talking to those who were hostile, to negotiation, he was a great warrior that deserved more than simple admiration for his role, but respect. Thorarin had gawped at his status before his bedtime, asking probing questions about battle and darkspawn that must have seemed tiresome.

"Are you a close order then? Or do you find being their leader distances you?" She asked conversationally. It was spoken of oft enough of her taking the role of Thane come her mother's passing. She was a fine warrior, but the clan saw her as their next leader. It would be an honour. But as such, she saw how Gunnhildr was close to all the warriors they lead, and her mother distanced herself, kept counsel with few. Their shaman Skormr, Jarl Gunnhildr, and herself. She knew every member of their clan by name, they neared a hundred in number, but she was not friendly with them. So it was something to consider.

The Thanes and Jarls of smaller clans when they came to Phoenix Hold every five years varied too. All clans were smaller than the Auonar, but some not by much. Some even changed clans. "I'd consider us all rather close. From my Warden-Constable, a mage called Lucien, to our most Junior-Warden Alistair, to our longest serving Warden Kherek. I had to ask him to remain with us despite wanting to..." He trailed off. "An old story for another time."

"You seem fond of each, tell an old story, we have many but it may be interesting to hear another." Dyrfinna smiled softly, bringing her needle up to her eyes when the thread was lost from the eye. She wet her finger, flattening the thick thread between a pinch and painstakingly pushed it back though.

"I could tell you about a feast I attended once in Orzammar? When the much younger King Endrin celebrated naming his youngest son? The dwarves don't name their children until they're about five you see."

His expression turned merry as he described the joyful feast, of the music and the dancing. He spoke passionately of the sumptuous foods dwarven servants had laid out for the occasion, filling four tables twenty feet long each to the brim with delicacies and roasts. Some of the Wardens in attendance hadn't even heard of half the foods, and most were lost when presented with more than one fork and one knife with the exception of this Kherek who seemed to know the difference between a fruit and seafood fork. Which, apparently, was very easy once picked up.

It was in his earliest days in the order, a Junior-Warden. He spoke of how they had elves and dwarves aplenty in attendance, and how a recently joined shaman had stuffed his belly until he was sick for days! It was almost an Avvar tale, embellished and full of descriptions and names. They were the important parts, because they were remembered.

Dyrfinna found herself laughing when he told of how this shaman had to run to the dwarven privy, or jakes as the lowlanders called them, and then very loudly exclaimed "Look at the tiny seat! My behind is much too large to fit on that!"

The conversation then turned more serious, as he spoke on how the elves of the Wardens hadn't ever eaten so well. When she questioned him, he evaded answering fully, but alluded that most humans viewed the Children of Shartan as lesser, secondary to humans. They could neither own more than their homes, and not often that much. The humans rounded them up into smelly hives in quarters of their cities, making them live apart and in squalid conditions, never letting them rise much higher than servants.

She was almost glad she was not a lowlander. There was a burning urge to right that wrong, but the scale of such a wrong was enormous! It conflicted inside the Avvar, why should she fear such an undertaking, compared to futility in the undertaking. The Avvar helped free the Children of Shartan from bondage, yet they remained little more than slaves by another name. And it had been over a thousand years since that war.

The subject turned again, to this Monarchy, and Duncan spoke of a close relationship with this King Cailan. In all his words this man shone with golden light, young and untested but eager and willing. He spoke of how this King's father had been the one to drive the painted lowlanders across the boarder of Ferelden back to their own country after slaving under their yoke for eighty years.

And he spoke of a man whom he didn't like. The general of this King Cailan's army, a taciturn man of ill-favour to the Wardens who helped this King Maric drive the painted lowlanders away. He was intelligent and bold, but quick to temper and difficult to understanding. Duncan spoke of respecting him but not liking him. Dyrfinna's eyes widened. "The Dragon Warrior? He is real?"

Duncan's eyebrow arched in question. "I've never heard of such a name."

"The Avvar tell of a Dragon Warrior, he who summoned a dragon down upon the Frostback Mountains after the last Avvar Battle with the Painted Lowlanders - these Orlesians. To help drive them away. The event was only a mere thirty years past, it is our youngest ballad!" Duncan snorted amusedly, adjusting his shoulders as he moved along the low cushioned bench to be closer to the hearth. She noticed he shivered much for a warrior. Perhaps in the lowlands it was considerably warmer?

"The Battle of River Dane saw a dragon fly over the Frostbacks. The Hero of River Dane, Teyrn Loghain would probably find that name frivolous. It's definitely amusing though. He'd also deny any control over the dragon. He's too much of a dragon himself." He smirked.

Dyrfinna laughed softly. "He is? Does he breath fire and wear scales of iridescent colours to frighten young children to sleep?" She grinned impishly at her own words. Duncan chortled.

"Probably! I'm being cruel to the man, I do respect him greatly, but I fear that isn't returned." He shrugged glumly. "It's late. I should probably get some sleep if I'm to make any headway come morning."

"That might be an idea." It was only upon his own admission of tiredness that Dyrfinna noticed it in him, the slope of his shoulders and the darker circles under his eyes. Her own tiredness was there too.

Come morning, Duncan would leave for Orzammar, and her brief glimpse into this mad lowlander world would be gone. She could not say the company had been displeasing though.


End file.
